


Entropy to the Smallest Degree

by HQ_Wingster



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Crimes & Criminals, Detectives, Developing Relationship, Disturbing Themes, Feelings Realization, M/M, Mind Games, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Open to Interpretation, Police, Psychological Drama, Psychological Horror, Secret Identity, Serial Killers, Symbolism, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 16:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14597550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: Chaos was much like the teacup that never came back together. In small doses, it added a vibrance that the world wasn’t prepared for. In the truth of its weight, all that bore its burden cracked and splintered into a thousand pieces. Perhaps one day, a teacup could come back together, or he could shatter with it.With every degree of entropy, Yuuri found himself closer toThe Marionette.Until he could almost taste the familiarity between them.





	Entropy to the Smallest Degree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allollipoppins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allollipoppins/gifts), [oklles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oklles/gifts).



> _****All characters have been aged-up by 8 years, give or take, so that they may have the experiences and maturity for the events portrayed in this fic. Because this story deals with law enforcement and of a serial killer, this change was made.****_
> 
> **Warnings:** this story handles human behavior, murder, bodily horror, subsistence abuse, human controversies, and psychological manipulation.
> 
> If the warnings and subject matters are uncomfortable to you, please click away and browse through the other fic selections provided on the AO3 platform. I found a niche for myself within the realms of thriller and suspense. It complements my writing style really well, and this has been an idea I've been wanting to do for months. This isn't a happy story, and a lot of what I commentate on are aspects that I pulled from my life and observations. And well, I want to write something for the Hannibal fandom one day, so this was a nice precursor so I can get comfortable with the mood and setting.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everything is within our design. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After staring at a gif of Will Graham for extended hours at a time, I slowly stitched together my characterization for Yuuri in this story. Typically, I haven’t written strong narratives for Yuuri because of some troubling things last year, but I’m getting myself back into the groove. I’m pretty happy with how this turned out, in terms of his characterization.

_“The thought of you enthralled me more than the consequences.”_

He was a crow the moment he opened his eyes. Perched amongst the leaves, a slight bounce in how the branch swayed, he lifted his head off from his breast. The evening kisses from the wind grew bold against the back of his neck, coaxing him to shut his eyes once more. Fall back into that dreamlike-state, where he could fall and his wings would flutter under the descending feet. The crow was much too numb to dance in the intimacy of the wind, no matter how soft its fingers were against his feathers. Curved just below his beak, perching his face upwards so that the horizon reflected back in his eyes. Ruffling his feathers, the crow shifted off from his resting place. Shuffled through the thickets of his mansion as his wings drooped and felt the brambles scratch back at him.

Twigs parted from his main halls, laced with acorns and an assortment of seeds. Watered a shapeless tongue until it had its first taste of the creamy stir inside. How the crow tilted his head, much as if he was locked in a dance with his beak and another’s, swaying back and forth until a crack split an acorn in half. The outer shell fell, knocked off the plain of existence when the crow scratched and peeled the nutty centre with his feet.

His claws protruded, digging into the flesh until a fine paste was rolled into a reasonable size for consumption. Pecked at. The slight flutter of wings when the crow regained his balance and scooted the nutty ball ever closer. Gazed fondly down at his creation before the pluck, before the shatter, before the rich protein that cascaded down the throat and bulged the crop a little more. Every life had a debt to pay, and the crow was simply the collector.

_Life sprung from Death, much as Death shattered how fragile Life could be._

That was the motto for a scavenger, and its encryption was etched into the crow’s heart. Where every beat resounded that truth from the day he hatched, and it was a momentum that never ceased in its stir as the crow stalked down his hall. Upon his estate, nothing was naked to his feathertips. Every brush belonged to him. This fortress of his- _-the spikes, the crippling vines, and the crooked remains-_ -chirped of the quiet horrors that no one else could understand when the crow parted his beak, ever-so slightly.

His blue-tipped tail bobbed, a glaring insult to the Heavens when they saw the crow dance in his vulgarity. There was nothing more dishonorable than picking at the dead and wiping them off, as if a disease. However, that was from sight alone. From the crow’s perspective, there was no greater justice for when the dead escaped a forgettable end.

This nourishment in his belly kept him alive, and the dead flourished in his veins. Powered by movement, by energy, and their lives were used for grandeur than to be paved upon with asphalt sometime later. So no, Heavens, the crow was very civilized. In fact, he only picked at the bare bones and scraps left behind by wolves. How humble he was to leave the good bits for the others. Nevertheless, in the end, the crow got his dessert when the greedy died young and their flesh was even better. Marinated, even, by the desires manifested from a desperate heart. However, the crow digressed.

When his feet were picked to perfection, the crow roosted quite comfortably and snuggled against his chest. The tips of his claws peeked out from his feathers, peeling a branch’s skin nice and slow. These stray marks and jagged crooks up to the main living space of the tree stenciled the life and courtship of the crow.

How a fledgling rolled out from his nest and learned to fly. Wings unfolded over a thicket of leaves as a foot reached out. A dragonfly caught between the corners, and its head ripped off. A splatter of guts dripped from a poised beak before it plunged. Digging at the soft tissue cracked from its source of protein.

How a young crow learned to speak of sweet nothings when a pleasant pullet perched herself, so nicely under a crown of berries. The dances, the chase, how every song peppered the Spring air until the crow rubbed a stick on his branch and lured the pullet into his nest. Where when she flicked the leaves away with her beak, dressed so nicely in a fine early-summer coat, a beak jabbed into the tender folds of her neck and she bled. Flapping her wings with no avail as a pair of talons coaxed her deeper into the nest. Where the crow mounted, crushing the pullet’s head beneath his foot until the light of day was a pale ghost in her eyes, before ripping each and every feather. Wine berries and delectable grubs accented the pullet’s flesh when the crow dug down, flapping his wings with every tug until a chunk bulged down his neck. The next day, the young crow stepped out from his nest. No longer just a crow when he licked the corner of his beak. A faint trace of blood crusted over the edge.

How a mature crow could step out from his nest and know that the world was to his entitlement. He started his morning rituals with a sort of beat, where he would bob his head as he migrated from one tree branch to another. Shaking off nests, plucking out squirrels, squabbling at potential rivals, and turning a shy eye away from any hens that cooed for his attention. Just so that the rest of their fleet could gang-up and shove him out from the wooden estate.  If ever a tactic could shine so pale, the feast that evening made-up for it. Garnished with bugs, rosy berries, and the sweet cinnamon of autumn’s harvest, the crow perched at the head of his table and carefully snipped himself a slice of meat. Honey-roasted after dried under the sun and the crow popped a berry. Juices ran down his beak and splattered over his feast. When fresh meat moved so willingly to his midst, he couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste.

When the crow was an old man, hobbling up his branch like he used to, he sometimes scratched his bum with a twig after an uneventful day. He wondered how life would’ve been like if he had been born a normal bird. Where he would move and leave his estate at winter's call, rest and partake in procreation with another similar to him, and die without a single mark in history. Such a life confused the crow when he nibbled on his fill of thrush bird that evening.

Where upon the present of his wings, the crow shook his head. Half-lidded eyes peered out from his estate and viewed the rest of the countryside. The thought of dinner crept into his mind, and the crow stretched his crooked wings. He had a few choices: either pick-off the rivals for his estate, snag a wayward bug or moth, or wait for the shrill of a wolf. Just the anticipation, alone, prompted a few nibbles to warm the palate before the crow stretched his wings and flew.

Up, higher than he had ever been before. Head crooked to the forest floor below with the softest shift in his wings. A warm air current strung him along, like a marionette with a meticulous puppeteer. Careful to tangle every string until the crow had no choice, but to descend and landed amongst a litter of branches. Wings folded over the rotund body, and the warmth of the evening breeze fingered through the crow’s feathers. Much as that of a lover, if a scavenger wasn’t prone to pick and pick until they were dead. A rustle from the nearby bushes crouched the body, low against a branch until the crow’s claws could curve and drag along the underbelly of his beak.

Beneath his feet emerged a stag, raking branches out of his way with his antlers. Fish, caught and skewered onto the pronged-tips. The mangled remains of a fox, held by the scruff and its limbs rocked back and forth in a lazy waltz with every turn of the stag’s head. He dropped the fox, gathered himself a new scruff to sink his teeth into, and lifted the body as if he rose his head after a brief drink the lake. Ancient blood coated down his silvery chest. It was as if a fated, red moon had turned and presented itself to the crow, coaxing him to come closer.

The crow landed, with death upon his wings, in front of the stag. Head cocked, the good eye focused on the contentment washed over the stag’s face as grisled meat crept down his throat and satisfied a hunger that he had never felt before. The crow parted his beak, enthralled by the beauty in the stag’s eyes at that moment. The hint of insanity, the touch of a forbidden art, and the curves and jutted muscle enticed the crow in a way that no other bird could replicate. A small caw crept from the crow’s beak.

No matter the consequence, he wanted the stag.

He wanted to roost upon those antlers and feel the weight of another’s burden. He wanted to nuzzle against the stag’s fur and feel the heat radiating on a midsummer’s eve. He wanted to love the stag so dearly that no other doe or four-legged beast could love him as much as the crow did. Such thoughts didn’t seem strange when the crow dipped his wings and began his courtship dance. A mere tango for one until the crow draped himself luxuriously amongst the foliage. His chest rising up and down, his eyes half-closed before he felt a lick from the stag. Perched over him and the tongue tickled the crow more intimately than any breeze from his lofty estate.

The stag accepted him.

Until eight months later, on the dead of winter, their bodies were found on a hitchhiker’s road. Where it looked as if the stag had simply toppled over, sleep crusted over his eyes. His antlers snapped into thousands of pieces. Almost in peace in how he slept, as if nothing else was more fitting than this.

To his right laid the crow, pierced through the heart by an antler.

 

 

_"You were a memory that kissed me new scars.”_

All that glittered was truly gold when Yuuri opened his eyes, and a lowbrow fringe slipped over his glasses. He had heard it once, and he would inevitably hear it again by the time he came home. If Phichit was there, early and sipping his ration of cup noodles, he’d say: _Boi, you need a haircut._ Chopsticks laid across the mouth of the foam cup, hands slightly apart in a straight line before they pointed towards Yuuri’s chest for emphasize. Just before Yuuri would turn his back and unload a stack of papers that needed a healthy dose of a red pen. And he’d laugh, play his game of the charade before lifting his head, eyes tinted from the sun peering back at him.

It was through that gray, Yuuri saw who people truly were. Even now, standing before his class while caricatures simply blinked back at him. The stir to his head, how his gaze swept and he gazed at these twenty-three faces as if they were new. As if the past semester didn’t exist until this wayward fringe altered his sight. Sitting before him weren’t just students, packed like sardines in their cubicle seats, but the future faces of the law. The men, the women, the dreamers, the disapprovers, and the challenged-- _it was the great melting pot of Justice and Yuuri had the honor to stir and add his ingredients as needed._

A soft drizzle of rain began its pour, like a pitcher with no end, and the splashes distorted the gray of this classroom until Yuuri tapped the top of his ballpoint pen. Like a gunshot, flickering gazes onto him. Pencils poised over notes before a smiled loosely stitched the part of Yuuri’s lips. He tossed his pen into the air and caught it around the sleek handle. Held it much like a knife before setting it behind him, and Yuuri finally brushed his bangs to the side.

Perched with his tailbone against the edge of his desk, suited over like a bird before his evening dance, it was hard to ignore had different Yuuri had become. Something new in the weather stirred how he carried himself as he walked through the aisles and inspected of how his students were fairing. Occasionally, he’ll rest his hand on the edge of someone’s desk, lean down, and pointed out shorthanded ways to convey the same definition in ten words than thirty.

This, not only in dress, was perhaps the most intimacy the class had ever experienced from him. Not in a sense where rumors would stir, but the gradual drop in professionalism was an added edge to how comfortable Yuuri had become.

The class had seen him molt from his shy feathers, and now he wore his winter suit with such lavish and care. Completely on the other side of the casual spectrum, but this was casualness to Yuuri. Where subtle words and subtle actions asked for nothing more, not even an explanation, for the trust was, more if not, mutual. Mutual feelings asserted a level of respect and here, Yuuri proved his. Not as jumbled or as confused as he normally would be, but a capable mentor that no longer needed to flaunt his scars to be taken seriously. Not that his scars were physically visible, but so easy to find if one cared to focus on the whites of his eyes. Of a man, curled in the back of his thoughts, but Yuuri had reached out-- _time and time again--_ before the man extended his hand and Yuuri led him to a comfort zone. A strange mix between familiarity and professionalism that suited Yuuri well when he perched at his usual spot, in front of the class.

This brim of comfortability blended a sort of color that somehow transfixed the gray setting and made it beautiful. Still, like the raindrops fastened against the overarching poles supporting the school. Muted and soft, taking the edge away from the seriousness that the Academy tried to drill into every mind. Perhaps once, Yuuri had experienced something similar in his youth when he sat in this very same classroom four years before. Only to ignore the gray, focus on the blacks and whites, and find himself as broken as his class would soon become if Yuuri didn't intervene. Perhaps, this was why teaching suited him.

He was a crooked tree if he were a plant, but a tree that-- _nonetheless--_ grew upright until it flourished under the sun. That bit of light was what drew Yuuri out from his darkest hour: a jagged crescent over the soft folds of his stomach. Rubbed against his dress-shirt when Yuuri leaned over his desk and tapped his keyboard. A parable, a shortened variation of what his class had to read over the weekend, materialized over the projector screen. Yuuri pressed his clicker and highlighted the title with a red beam.

_‘Crow and His Siege’_

No other name felt so fitting for a bird that thought he had it all, and Yuuri could almost imagine himself roosting in the very same tree that the crow had roosted in for all his life. And then, Yuuri felt the prickle of hairs stand on the back of his neck when a hand slowly rose into the air. Front seat, three chairs to the right of his desk, and Yuuri turned and locked his gaze with Plisetsky.

“I have an analysis, Sir.” Plisetsky tipped back in his seat. A slew of jagged bangs curved over the top of his forehead. “We’ve been learning about classic literature, contemporary art, and we’ve read enough stories where it reminds some of us of our English courses back in university.” A short shudder followed.

How the shoulder blades bolted under the flesh and reverberated, back and forth. Yuuri’s eyes counted four sways before Plisetsky spoke again. Yuuri centered his attention back on Plisetsky’s eyes and felt the flame of the man’s opinion like it was a drum against his pulse.

“How does any of this apply to what we’ll be doing?” Outside in the light drizzle, a class had a field day on the banks of Lake Huron. Nailing bullet after bullet into picket signs and silhouettes until it was muscle-memory to pull the trigger on a common enemy. “I doubt that literature and art is going to help us when we arrest the psychos out there.”

The sentence hung in the air for as long as it took for an empty shell to spill out from a gun. Reloaded, shot again, and Yuuri could hear the resounding echo and the accompaniment of thunder that lifted its ear from the Canadian border. The term _‘psycho’_ had never been used in this class. Never to describe the artists or the writers that Yuuri presented on his slideshows, never as a justification for the obscure messages sprawled like prisoners behind a block of text, and never as a blank term to encompass every face that every law enforcer peered at from behind a bulletproof screen.

On its own, the slideshow clicked to the next slide. It was on a timer, back when Yuuri used to ramble when he spoke and the switch of a slide taught him how to condense his words to the most important meaning. With practice, Yuuri taught effectively and didn’t rely on the timer as much as he did before, but he never bothered to take it off. The timer were still on the slideshow, four years after the making and an intricate web of betrayal flashed behind Yuuri’s back. He didn’t notice until he saw the reflection in another’s glasses.

An artist’s interpretation spoke of what captured her attention in the story of the _‘Crow and His Siege’._ Blurred with falling snow and swirling black-tipped feathers, laid the stag and the crow. Side by side, facing each other in their last minutes. The crow, with his wings stretched to their fullest length and brushed against the chiseled snout of his partner. The stag, his hooves encircled the crow’s feeble body and nothing could breach that circle. Broken silhouettes of the stag’s antlers scattered across their courtship, like letters left behind by their feverous love. But in the midst of this companionship, betrayal dotted over the crow’s gaze when he sighed his last breath. His wings tenderly folded across the stag, wanting to peer into the galaxies that once swirled in those eyes. Alas, the stag only stared at darkness, already dead when the crow touched him. Yuuri felt the weight of betrayal when he felt a broken antler, embedded into his heart.

He fluttered the wings of his suit jacket. The sides flapped up and perched over the teetering edge of his desk when Yuuri leaned back and supported his weight against the fixture. The figurative antlers upon his head were hardly impressive, but his buds had grown and branched off into separate little twigs that he could call as his own when Yuuri met Plisetsky’s eyes once again.

“To understand a killer, you have to imagine that you are one.” Yuuri pressed his clicker, fading black over the projection screen. “We are stags, or attempt to be, to understand why and how certain variables come together to breed a killer. Any one of us can save a life.”

 _‘If we want to’_ died at the back of Yuuri’s throat. His fingers folded behind him. There was a certain obligation that every teacher swore into, whether they were aware of it or not. Information was to be presented, accordingly to the curriculum, in a certain way where there were no ‘ _buts’_ or _‘what-ifs’_ to lead a learning mind astray. Even if a said alternative spoke more truth than what Yuuri had to read behind his script, memorized anyway because there was no alternative in such a black-and-white world. Or so, many people liked to believe.

Simply put: merely implying that anything that he taught in class was a choice would earn Yuuri a good yank at the ear by Principal Baranovskaya. Just the thought buried what rebellion Yuuri felt when his hands trembled within his sleeves, shrinking back to the man he used to be when Yuuri couldn’t meet his class the same way that he began for this lecture. Flubs rounded over his tongue when he told Plisetsky that they could talk in private after class. Even then, Yuuri couldn’t say much.

Saving a life was an obligation, drilled into the void of every soul that passed through the Chesapeake Academy. No need to argue over it when Yuuri searched behind him, thumbed through the small stack of worksheets hot from the printer. It was a dull way to pass time when the lesson was finished, ten minutes earlier than expected. The clicks of his footsteps became a steady rhythm to hold onto when Yuuri came so close to slipping, to revealing the ugly truth of what any of this meant to him.

By the time Yuuri passed the last worksheet, a figure came through the door and the meticulous steps that followed turned his head. His eyes narrowed, a flash of lightning chased across the mirror slick of Lake Huron and accentuated the shadows around Yuuri’s gaze.

Staring back at him, intruded behind his desk and legs crossed in familiarity, Celestino rested his chin over the crook of his hands. He hadn't changed one bit in the past four years; albeit, Celestino was an open book to Yuuri now. No secrets written between them, but the silence spoke of another story that neither could quite say just yet.

Yuuri’s fingers twitched around an imaginary slip in his hand. The very same, but real in Celestino’s hands when he rested a folded photograph across Yuuri’s desk.

“Class is now in session.”

The simple phrase eased Yuuri into a vacant classroom seat. It felt as if he was alone in this classroom, and Celestino had forgot to teach him something all those years ago. Minute twitches became more apparent when Yuuri glanced elsewhere, and he caught sight of the torrential rain outside. The firearm class retreated back into the Academy, trekking mud along the floor.

All the while, Celestino introduced himself, as little or as much as he wanted as his voice rumbled with the accompanying thunder. One of the top handlers for the Graveyard Division for the Chesapeake Yard. Having carried that title for fourteen years and counting, Celestino could easily identify which branch of the Chesapeake Yard a student was well-rounded for.

From a glance, it appeared easy. As if the man was pulling titles from a hat behind his back, but it was a small taste of psychology and a bit of experience. Body language analyzed to its finest degree, but Celestino reassured the class that this was all mere-speculation and that everyone could pursue whichever branch they felt interested in. Like clockwork, this all connected back to Yuuri. So often these moments did, simply to ruffle a few of Yuuri’s feathers when he cornered himself in his wired cage.

“Four years ago, I once met a student who wanted to pursue the Graveyard Division.” The flick of his ponytail jogged a bit of nostalgia, and Celestino witnessed the memory at where Yuuri sat.

Where instead of his present-self, a twenty-seven year old and doe-eyed Katsuki sat expectedly in his seat. Hand ready to spring, prepared to answer any question presented to the class because he couldn’t wait. Wait for what? Have his voice heard? Celestino didn’t know for sure when he examined the class, back leaning against a wall, to observe the classroom proctor of the time.

“When he graduated, I handpicked him for a peculiar case.”

Oh, Yuuri was a shy little bird when he met his team for the first time. Ushered into the Graveyard Division by Celestino’s coaxes, and Yuuri peeked around Celestino’s elbow. Terror jolted from his backbone to the stiffness along his shoulders. He was the youngest by far on the team. Was this a mistake? If not, what did Celestino see in him?

On paper, Yuuri appeared ordinary. Driven by self-justice and political correctness to the simplest degree, being a law enforcer felt like second-nature. As cliché as the reasoning was, sheer determination propelled Yuuri this far. Caught the eye of his now-handler and Yuuri couldn’t let his team down. He couldn’t, he shouldn’t, but these negatives were aspects that Yuuri couldn’t ignore when he felt the weight of his badge and gun for the first time.

“What case were you working on, Sir?” The teetering figure of Kenjirou Minami shook like one of the branches outside, slapping against the window because of the onslaught of rain. His voice muffled by the rain, but clear against Yuuri’s ear before his fingers twitched against the desk.

The dramatic pause wasn’t necessary. “Do any of you remember _The Marionette?”_

* * *

It wasn’t a matter of whether anyone remembered, but who could forget the horrific murders that splattered Michigan like a wet paintbrush? Where an artist dipped their fingers, their nails, and their entire being into their work until nothing was without their signature. Every lamppost stenciled in by a steady hand, and every contortion of the human dignity laid like a jigsaw for the police to figure out. The police could come close, fitting all the pieces together to create an image, but they were always one piece short. No DNA samples, no mistakes to pick at, and a slew of phone calls, paperwork, and rigorous investigation. To the point where a group of suspects was revised, edited, and scrapped altogether with every murder found between July and December of a tasteless year.

Twelve confirmed kills and at least twenty more, unconfirmed and stretched from the Pacific to the Atlantic before the killer situated themselves in Flint, Michigan. A past stitched with misfortune, indeed, and with other contributing _‘masterpieces’_ that comprised the last list of suspects for the Chesapeake Yard to review. All of which were artists and writers, dubbed as the _‘conventional psychos’_ until they were off the hook and drowned with enough backlash that ended more than twenty careers on the left side of Lake Huron.

Yuuri wished that the memories stopped there.

When he heard _The Marionette,_ again like this, Yuuri could still taste the vomit in the air when reporting agent, Hisashi Morooka, doubled-down on his knees on the forest floor. Shouldered around Flint by the west side and Morooka spilled his lunch onto the crime scene. Unable to contain himself because the stench of _The Marionette’s_ seventh victim infiltrated every pore in his being. Until he was the victim and the victim was him.

The victim, a woman with morphine injections hitched up her arms when she was found, gasped between every breath. Alive, but more than half-dead from the cultivation of mushrooms and other scavengers that had picked her insides out. A centipede slipped out from her mouth, and Morooka hollered that he had enough. He pointed at the officers and wayward detectives that scraped evidence off from the woman as if she was a work of art.

 _“What the hell are we doing?!”_ The insanity broadcasted to every major network, and the quiet horrors of _The Marionette_ were realized. In that moment, the Chesapeake Yard was facing more than just a sadistic killer with a flair for the theatrics. This was the work of a monster, and the police simply played the role of the scavengers in Morooka’s eyes. _“Get her to a hospital!”_

_“The victim--”_

_“Don't give me that bullcrap!”_ Morooka wrestled against his restraints. Ripped his arms out of another’s until he was free. _“She has a name!”_

Funny enough, Morooka met the same backlash from the woman's family, from her community, and from the rest of the world beyond Michigan. Thousands of voices cried out that Morooka ignored the most basic human right: _a name._ Blind that a name did little to nothing for a headline if the name meant nothing to begin with.

Truth in the matter, for a name _\--an unknown name, at that--_ didn't register the same conviction and horror as the headline: _‘Seventh Victim of The Marionette Found Barely Alive.’_ Stick a name and omit the background, and the dear woman that Morooka cried for would've had her story untold. Her name already written in the first few sentences of his article, but people didn't care. They simply skimmed and raised more trouble than they would ever know, and ruined a man and his love for writing. Forever. All because Morooka wanted the story accessible and known to the public than just for the personal few.

In the present of this moment, when Yuuri stood his ground and bandaged a handkerchief around his mouth, he didn’t pay attention to the macabre display of decomposition. Sure, the tick tock of a warning bell rang in the back of his mind. Telling him that this was messed up and that they-- _the police, the detectives, and Yuuri--_ had to do something to incite justice back into Flint, Michigan. However, all of that could wait when Yuuri crouched by the woman’s side, closer than he ever imagined, and thought about holding her hand. Holding _Parker Jones’_ hand, just so that Yuuri could feel the rigor of her arched muscles and the tenderness of her palm. Of how a bug had scurried and attempted to feast upon her flesh before a blue-gloved hand plucked the intruder and saved Parker Jones. Or perhaps, Yuuri was the only one who saw that in his mind’s eyes.

This figure-- _Yuuri suspected that this was The Marionette--_ was unlike any police sketch or wanted poster that skimmed the streets of Flint, Michigan. This figure, _a woman,_ appeared in Yuuri’s mind as a friend. As a silhouette that changed her form at will, mirroring the different body-types a person may carry as she strutted from the edge of Yuuri’s imagination and lifted Yuuri’s chin by the grace of her thumb. Where therein, Yuuri became _The Marionette_ and _The Marionette_ became him.

One in the same and time reversed. Hands turned counterclockwise and the decay of Parker Jones whittled into its freshest state. Just before this forest, before she walked here with blindfolds secured over her eyes, before she popped out of a car with her purse slinged over her shoulder, before she grabbed her fourth drink at the town bar with the last of her cash traded-in for a toothpick, and before Parker Jones stepped into that bar to gamble her life for what it was worth.

 

 

These visions didn’t register to Yuuri’s sense until he felt rain against his cheek and attempted to wipe it away. Only to pull his hand away and discovered Parker Jones’ blood against his hand. This hand was not his own, nor was the knife that materialized under his deft thumb. Neither were the bangs that flopped over his left eye, nor was the writhed body of Parker Jones’ of his doing. Yuuri was _The Marionette,_ in the heat of the moment when she crouched by Parker’s side and pressed a gloved-hand over the slit across her throat. Parker couldn’t speak, but her lips moved to form the first few syllables.

A shush prompted her to stop.

 _“So far from being free.”_ Yuuri heard his own voice creep from _The Marionette’s_ lips. _“But here,”_ a hand brushed aside Parker’s bangs. Her eyes migrated upwards until she could blink and bask under the touch of moonlight, _“you’re a masterpiece.”_

A spilled purse materialized a few feet away from Parker’s body. Morphine syringes glistened under the filtered moonlight from the trees.

Two milligrams for every dose and when Yuuri happened to glance down--or rather, when _The Marionette_ allowed Yuuri to look down--there was already a syringe in hand. Three fingers pressed along Parker’s arm to find a vein before the injection was given, and a glossed-look saturated over her eyes as the dosage rippled through her body in small and, then, expanded waves. Her breathing subsided somewhat, enough where a faint whistle crept from between her lips. _The Marionette_ kept her hand at Parker’s neck. Slowly cleaning her and cutting away the tight fabric across her body. With the shirt, the sleeves, down the pant-leg until most of the flesh was unbound and nicked with bruises from Parker’s own doing.

Yuuri didn’t know her story, or why Parker chose to partake in any of this. To rule out addiction, familial struggles, and stress didn’t feel right. However, the way _The Marionette_ comforted and tended to Parker spoke of something beyond the traditional guidelines of why someone would overdose, or even be here while a meticulous artist carved into Parker’s body and created a five-course dish for Nature to swallow. Every addition came with time, gradually so that Parker could adjust and have her morphine to numb her listless spirit.

This was neither the carnage nor the peak of insanity that so many people pointed _The Marionette_ for. To Yuuri, these sessions and the subsequent ones that followed- _-daily-_ -felt like a routine-checkup with one’s therapist. Where _The Marionette_ often worked in silence and decorated Parker with a new spread for Nature to admire while Parker quietly mouthed her thoughts to someone whom she trusted. More than a person back from her town, from her own family, but from a stranger that understood her as much as she could understand the theatrics of what _The Marionette_ wanted to do with her.

Both women spoke through their actions: of tender touches, of sweet relief and relish that danced over their tongues, and _The Marionette_ tended to Parker as if she was a flower. Careful to pull away any bugs that had come too soon, often spraying the surrounding area with a pungent stench that kept the wild animals away before the feast, and she would’ve carried out her last installment. However, Parker found peace and gestured with her touch that _The Marionette_ could leave her be.

 

 

Perhaps, this was a story of Parker Jones and of how she finally found the purpose of what she wanted to do. Where in her last moments, she felt remembered and could pass easily from there. Where in the course of talent and how Parker felt that she was talentless, _The Marionette_ expressed the beauty and of the art that Parker had shunned from herself because it wasn’t what people wanted to see.

When Yuuri felt Parker Jones’ fingers rested against his palm, he looked into her eyes just as they were closing. _“So far from being free; but here, you’re a masterpiece.”_

She stared at him, half-lidded eyes lingered at his gaze. Her lips, unable to move. Jaw unhinged to what had bitten down and strewn her vocal chords like cobwebs for a lonely spider to settle within. If she could speak, if she could tell her story once more, her fingers curled over the dirt until Yuuri cradled them against his palms. Holding on tight, giving Parker Jones the strength she needed. Absent shapes sketched across Yuuri’s skin until Parker Jones tilted her head to the side. Her eyes, partially closed, when a whistle crept from her throat.

She was neither dead nor asleep. She lived on through the nourishment her body provided for the myriad of lonely creatures that soon became friends and lifelong partners when they met over the dips and crevices of her body.

It was odd, viewing life in such a...Yuuri couldn’t find the word. All he could understand was what Parker Jones was more alive now that had her original body had perished. It seemed that he was the only one who noticed the beauty in that. With Morooka punching numbers into his phone for a hospital, the bagging and tagging of Parker Jones’ purse and other belongings, and Celestino crouched next to Yuuri and asked him of how he felt.

Celestino rubbed his shoulders, loosening the stiffness that overcame Yuuri.

_“It’s your first time out here. It’s okay if you--”_

_“I think we’ve got it all wrong about The Marionette,”_ Yuuri said. He couldn’t explain himself, or Celestino would think he was crazy. At least, that was what Yuuri rationed when he got up and stepped away from the crime scene. Each step ricocheted in the back of his mind.

* * *

Every step took him back into the firm-place of the present, where Yuuri sat in a vacant classroom seat with a slack jaw. Almost numb to the nostalgia that plucked at his heartstrings before he slipped behind his beak and feathers once more. All eyes were on him when Celestino gestured to Yuuri with an open hand. It was Yuuri’s choice if he wanted to reciprocate the touch, and he didn’t have to. He could continue this little game of distance, or he could amount into the person he once was. Given a bit of motivation and Celestino always knew how to read Yuuri’s mind when he retracted his hand and settled with the warmth of his words instead.

“Yuuri was that student.” Four simple words separated by four, rigorous years. Even on the other side of this divide, Celestino spoke as if Yuuri was his son.

As if after all this time, he could see the faint silhouette of Yuuri beyond the horizon as the younger male trekked his way back home. Unsteady in his steps at first but soon, Yuuri was running when Celestino hurried down the front steps of his ranch-style porch and threw his arms around Yuuri when Yuuri jumped and embraced him. Mud and all from a recent storm.

Celestino wiped back the mess across Yuuri’s face and fastened his coat around Yuuri, keeping him warm as they made it back to the house together. A meal set and polished for Yuuri’s return as Celestino toweled Yuuri’s hair and dried it clean from a personal odyssey. The touch, so familiar but took time in getting used to when Yuuri blinked and lifted his head. Felt the towel slip onto his shoulders when Celestino cradled him with these touches. It’d been too long since they were like this, much as how Celestino couldn’t help but linger his touch around Yuuri’s hold. Just as he slipped folded photograph in between Yuuri’s fingers.

Yuuri’s other hand meandered to find the tabletop cam, and his desk was then broadcasted across the projector screen. Yuuri slid the photograph into view, and all the students held their breaths when Yuuri peeled at a corner. About to unveil a little secret, but Yuuri glanced up and met Celestino’s eyes for strength. He was rather rusty for what he was about to do, and Celestino gave a small nod of encouragement. It was always the littlest things that quelled the storm in Yuuri’s mind, and this was no exception when Celestino rested his hands over Yuuri’s. Ready to help if Yuuri needed it.

 _“How is your injury?”_ The whisper barely registered in Yuuri’s mind when his thumb trembled at the photograph's corner. A dull burn drew a crescent down the side of Yuuri’s stomach, and his glasses slid to the tip of his nose. Top teeth pressed against his bottom lip before Celestino steadied Yuuri’s hands, reminding him to breathe.

 _“Better,”_ was all Yuuri could manage. He peeled the corner and straightened the photograph so that the image became clear on the projector screen. A pen could drop and sound like an explosion by how quiet the classroom had gotten, and it felt as if everyone had forgotten to breathe when reality trickled off from the projector screen and splashed onto the floor. Seeped into the closet shoes and crawled up an arm or twirled around a hand so that students dropped whatever they were holding. Paralyzed.

There was no such thing as a standard murder, but every individual had a distinct way of expressing themselves with their doings. This scene was no different from a textbook example of a mad individual-- _where mental illness and the desire to kill were so intimately intertwined by definition, but that was a callous observation._ The desire to kill stemmed from more reasons than just an aspect that one didn’t ask for in this odyssey called _Life._

“When Yuuri was in the Graveyard Division, he had an uncanny intuition of understanding the framework of a killer.” Celestino clapped his hand against Yuuri’s shoulder, shaking it playfully and Yuuri mumbled for him to stop. They could reminiscent about the old times after class, and Yuuri had a point to teach. Whether he knew his lines or not, Yuuri fabricated one when he studied the crime scene. Rusty, but he had a template to work off of. Something that every graduate in his class would soon remember for the rest of their career if they remembered nothing else from this class.

“When was this?”

“Recent. Four days ago at the theatre.” Celestino circled the slumped figure rested in a chair on top of the stage with the back of a pen. “No smell. May’ve been there for about a week. No one was in the theatre for quite some time because of the repairs outside.”

Yuuri narrowed his eyes at the emboldened curtains, drawn back at the scene of the crime, and a faint bit of cursive was written across the velvet. Folded the theatre’s name.

“Surroundings?”

“Babicheva’s Bakery is across the street, operating hours between seven a.m. to two in the morning. Ms. Babicheva, herself, mentioned that she saw no one by the theatre at night. The back of the theatre is padlocked and gated, and an identification and a key is needed to get inside.” A little more than Yuuri needed, but Celestino gave enough for the rusted gears in Yuuri’s head to turn.

“Why would someone need to go inside?” Yuuri could almost imagine himself sitting in one of the seats in the auditorium, thumbed crested over the top of his lip as the situation materialized in his mind. Lights situated, curtains held back by golden threads, but there was two figures in Yuuri’s Theatre of the Mind.

One, being the victim with the peculiar novelty sticking out from his torso. The other, Yuuri suspected was _The Marionette._ A blurred figure, no definition of shape, but clearer than the shadow from his first encounter. Enough where Yuuri saw a pair of teal eyes stare back at him from the figureless mass, standing behind an instrument of horrors.

Celestino tipped back in Yuuri’s seat, closed his eyes and imagined the scenario within his head.

“A spotter was needed in case the outside repairs toyed with anything inside. However, the main repairs were towards the front and didn’t spread to the back where the stage was. Electricians were on hand in the theatre booth, but they were at the panels and nowhere near the stage in surveillance footage.”

Yuuri broke his gaze away from the projector screen, and his settled on his students. They stared back at him, wondering if he’d ask for their input.

“Are there cameras in the stage-wings?”

“None.” A pop in Celestino’s response.

“Were the curtains closed or drawn?”

“Closed.”

Yuuri could barely stand on his own when the scar along his stomach burned with intensity, as if someone had strapped a hot blade against his flesh.

If alone in the comfort of his bed, he would’ve pressed a pillow against his side until it eased the discomfort. Even then, he’d remain awake for hours after the jolt. Too afraid of what would strike him next in his sleep, and Yuuri would then spend the rest of the night counting Phichit’s breaths as he snored on the other side of the room. Undisturbed with his cheek pressed against a plush.

In public like this, all Yuuri could do was close his eyes. Nothing could hurt him now.

 

 

This was Yuuri’s ultimate defense against the present when he could slip back into the past through his imagination, found himself seated in an auditorium as _The Marionette_ twirled a cello bow around her finger. Like a knife, the tip pierced with a jab when it flew into the air and landed with a firm _clasp_ around _The Marionette’s_ palm before her fingers curved into a springy bow-hold. A red sash, loose around her waist with ever step forward, and the sharp echo of her heels against the wooden stage floor accompanied Yuuri’s heartbeats. _The Marionette_ was as beautiful as Yuuri could ever imagine, even if her silhouette left nothing to his imagination.

Dangerous, yet soft when she brushed her hair behind her ear. Yuuri’s enemy, but _The Marionette_ appeared as his friend with sheet music blossoming from the crook of her elbow like a bouquet to present Yuuri with. Alive, but she felt like a shadow from when Yuuri first met her in his mind. Perhaps, she was a dying breed. Hunted to the brink of extinction with nowhere to hide after one escape after another.

But then, if _The Marionette_ was in front of Yuuri, who was the man sitting next to him? The sudden apparition that materialized at the blink of an eye, and Yuuri didn't turn his head.  From the corner of his eye, he noticed the soft fringe of his stranger. Pieced together in three with a bowtie peeking out from his collar. His closest eye covered by a curtain of bangs, and a low smile rode the curve of his lips.

Yuuri kept his attention at the stage, but his fingers dug into the plastic armrest of his seat. The scar down his side cracked in agony, enough for tears to water Yuuri’s eyes when he tried to ease his breathing. Failed to and startled himself, just as his stranger reached his hand over and stroked the back of Yuuri’s.

 _“Just close your eyes.”_ The fluttery accent was unlike anything Yuuri had ever heard before, and even his imagination couldn’t have created it as his stranger doodled absent shapes along Yuuri’s wrist. Carefully spelling out a name that Yuuri couldn’t quite catch. The letters were a dull echo in Yuuri’s mind when his lips parted slowly. Yuuri’s stranger drummed his fingers slowly over the wrist. _“No one can hurt you now.”_

If there was any more to say, this figment of Yuuri’s imagination lowered his shoulder just a bit. The fine crest of his collarbone revealed to Yuuri before the line was hidden beneath a suit-jacket collar. Yuuri didn’t know this person, and nothing in this imagination could persuade him to think otherwise. Even so, there was nothing to fear if his stranger had nothing to hide. No weapons present, no ulterior motive except to feel Yuuri’s touch upon his shoulder, and his stranger was ever patient when Yuuri settled into his seat. Though twice of what he wanted to do before he acted on it.

 _‘Odd’_ wasn’t the first word to come to Yuuri’s mind when he rested his head upon the shoulder, almost taken back by the sweet scent of strawberries and peppermint brushed against his stranger’s neck. Slowly but surely, this warmth coaxed Yuuri to close his eyes. He felt safe and sound.

Just as the stranger gazed down at Yuuri, noting the vulnerability that flowered over Yuuri’s collar and the tangible skin beneath. Though a finger teased the surface with a slow meander, the stranger crept his hand back onto his lap and a passed a smile to his counterpart onstage. _The Marionette,_ the younger version of his true self, bowed her head. Soft curls bounced over her shoulders when her fingers settled upon her instrument.

Propped on the stage chair, hands curved over the end of the armrests, was a portly man with the neck of a cello extended from where his head should’ve been. The mahogany scroll glistened under the stagelights, grew paler down the neck and matched the victim’s body. No, matched _Mr. Weshire’s_ body. Local bank-auditor for the town of Flint, and no one noticed his unexcused absence because he was as quiet as a one-handed clap behind a desk. To see his vocal chords upgraded to the chords of a cello, _The Marionette_ fingered through a C-major arpeggio to test the limits. A three-octave warm-up until the last note rang like a bell. Soon after, the _Ballad of The Mind_ began.

A boisterous, rich melody-- _unlike the soft murmur of Mr. Wershire’s usual voice--_ consumed the theatre until every nook and cranny was embraced by the warmth behind his words. Undecipherable, but _The Marionette_ was simply the messenger that conveyed all that Mr. Wershire couldn’t convey on his own. With a mouthpiece that enthralled the heart before the ears or eyes, Yuuri could almost feel the presence of another on his left side. He didn’t open his eyes, but he felt the warmth of Mr. Wershire’s ghost as he watched the performance with soft eyes. A gash just above the base of his neck, and Mr. Wershire rocked back and forth in his seat. Mesmerized by the sweet melody that _The Marionette_ had promised him with. Occasionally, he’d glance to his right and smile at Yuuri’s sleeping-form. About to speak, but he stopped himself when Yuuri’s stranger pressed a finger against his lips.

A twinkle behind those teal eyes spoke of the feverous secret that he had admitted to Mr. Wershire days prior to this arrangement, and Mr. Wershire simply shook his head and whispered something about light, airy feelings. Much as how _The Marionette_ performed when she made the most of Mr. Wershire’s cello-component.

The spring of her bow, the bounce over the strings, and the slew of slurs and ties that could fill one composition book after another for all that a man could say before Mr. Weshire felt at peace. His outlined glowed with orange and white, perhaps at ease that he would never fall back into obscurity again. Not while his mouthpiece could sing for all to hear, and Mr. Wershire’s claps echoed around the auditorium after the final ring of the last note. Each clap faded as quickly as it had come, back to the empty space of where Mr. Weshire’s ghost once sat.

The ignored gained a voice that no one could turn away from, and a former touch reunited with another former touch before Yuuri’s stranger began to fade as well. His former-self, _The Marionette,_ disappeared under the darkness that enveloped the stage when the stage lights flickered off. Soon followed was the other-self and Yuuri tipped over. Only to open his eyes, unsure if this reality was still in his head or if he was truly alone.

He was alone in his own classroom. Almost startled himself when Yuuri touched his neck and could almost feel the warmth from his imagination. _If,_ it was simply his imagination.

 

 

**_The Marionette Strikes Back?_ **

_November 12th, 2024  
Hisashi Morooka, Standing Reporter of Flint, Michigan _

On November 10th, the LeStrange Theatre played homage to one of the most iconic serial killers that struck Michigan State, _The Marionette._ At 6:45 a.m., the body of Mr. Bilius Wershire from the town’s bank was found onstage, seated in a chair. His self, decapitated at the base of the neck and construed upwards with a cello’s neck, was discovered by the Technical Theatre Director, Charlotte Berstrop, after inspecting the back of the stage during the past week of recent repairs. When asked of her first impression, Berstrop shook her head in disbelief.

“I thought _The Marionette_ was found and put behind bars years ago,” said Berstrop, unable to look away from the remains of Mr. Wershire as an investigation team from the Chesapeake Yard inspected the scene of the crime. “Unless we’ve got the wrong person, then we’ve got a copycat walking around.”

Similar murders, such as the fate of Mr. Wershire, constituted to the dark period of Flint, Michigan between July and December of 2018, where twelve murders stirred the nightmare that the town has yet to heal from. _The Marionette_ was easily identified as the criminal behind these reports, distinguished by the finesse and artistic liberties employed upon her victims.

The Head of the Chesapeake Yard, Lilia Baranovskaya, assures that the most recent murder was, indeed, done by a copycat.

“They did their research, but the motives are clearly different,” said Baranovskaya, after inspecting the crime scene with her own eyes. “There is no malicious intent behind this work, except to unearth a nightmare that we, as a community, have moved passed from.”

 

 

_“It wasn't a coincidence that we met like this.”_

There was a place where one couldn’t reach unless they had a dream, too large to bear on their own. _‘Miraculous’_ was the first word that came to Phichit’s mind. His badge pressed behind him, Phichit parted form the auditorium and climbed onstage at the LeStrange Theatre. The scrape of his sneakers echoed like a sharp note, and Mr. Weshire sat poised in his seat. A slight tilt to his scroll when his cello-portion cocked to the side by gravity’s doing.

Always blame the laws of physics; they were the only few that didn’t abide to the several others drilled into Phichit’s mind. And yet, no one said a word against them because they held more weight in their action than any scenario that concocted a scenario like this when Phichit pulled his medical gloves on.

There was a different feel for when he stared into the heart of a crime scene than from a polaroid picture. No offense to Celestino and his team, but Phichit whistled a prayer underneath his breath for when he approached Mr. Wershire’s slumped figure. Just as how the news had said so, there was no smell. However, it didn’t deter Phichit from holding his breath just to be sure. There were certain scents that lingered longer than all the rest, but Phichit’s nose was still immature to what brewed inside of Mr. Wershire. Like an aged-barrel with all its holes creased over with brass and silver, much like the fanciful attire that had been cut and sewn to Mr. Wershire’s person. Yes, Phichit was perhaps that close to Mr. Wershire when a respectable distance was very much appreciated, though unspoken when Phichit ran his pinkie over a stitched seam.

Followed the trail down to the crook of Mr. Wershire’s armpit before Phichit pulled his finger away. Nothing was more careless than disrespecting the dead, even if they couldn’t see what he was doing. Physically, at least, and Phichit opened his little toolkit. Procured a few cotton swabs and swiped the neck of Mr. Wershire’s cello-portion. Cleaning around the black tuning-pegs, and ran a length of tape down the neck and caught several prints from all sides. From officers, from theatre production, and from God-knew-who-else that might’ve crept here when no one was around. The mere thought broke sweat against the back of Phichit’s neck.

At where he stood, the copycat or _The Marionette,_ true to her name, had been here to admire Mr. Wershire’s body once more before disappearing at the drop of a hat. Where lipstick could’ve been applicable, Phichit traced the lines of his mouth with chapstick and snapped the cap back on. An echo that pleaded for an encore, for a soloist to play at Mr. Wersrhire’s heartstrings for once more. Said soloist wasn’t Phichit, but he picked up the bow rested across Mr. Wershire’s lap. Holding it at the middle as he taped and peeled the tip and frog for fingerprints. Then and only then, Phichit mused himself with a bit of music.

To blur the lines between pleasure and play like this was nothing like the blur between work and goofing off when the entire town of Flint, Michigan depended on these scrap bits of evidence to find the copycat. Or better yet, the real killer and hang a head in shame for imprisoning the wrong woman. Whichever came first, and it all was uncertain when Phichit felt the creep of his heartbeats.

There was a life that one could only experience if they had a heart, too big to play the rhythm for this encore. Said heart was tucked behind the fanciful tie, loose off of Mr. Wershire’s neck. Phichit mused that if someone had the audacity to construct an entirely new head for the man, they could’ve taken his heart as well. It was easy. It was right _there!_ Poking out from a window carved into Mr. Wershire’s chest when his cavity was ripped open with pliers and every manner of sewing equipment that _The Marionette_ had at her disposal. Phichit could barely scratch the surface of the image while, on the other hand, he had a friend that could sit back and watch the cinema play in the theatre within his mind. With a simple close of his eyes, and Phichit couldn’t get there. No matter how hard he tried for tangible reality did it for him.

Phichit unbuttoned Mr. Wershire’s dress shirt, careful in his endeavor until the heart lifted its top and gazed at him with gloss coated over its surface. As slowly as the buttons were undone, as slow as the heart toppled out. Free from its restraints and it bounced off of Mr. Wershire’s thigh. Bumped against Phichit’s shoe and he didn’t bat an eyelash.

Two years had taught a rookie, forensic pathologist everything that he needed to know before it was too much. If only Yuuri could see him now before Phichit, breath hitched at his throat, trembled in grabbing his notepad and pen from his coat pocket. Slanted scribbles littered his page, key observations jotted down before Phichit clicked the top of his pen.

Reality settled in.

He wished there was blood, wished that this was just a romantic-esque scene from a novel where he could fall back and find himself in bed because this was all a dream. Anything to distract the chill when an empty cavity lurched forward in its seat, the cello-portion of the body brushed against the back of Phichit’s knuckles in his slow descent backwards. Until Mr. Wershire crumbled, a bounce to his limbs as if he was a recent kill and the crack of a peg jolted adrenaline to Phichit’s legs. He fell, caught in the arms of his rookie-veteran partner when Viktor whisked Phichit out from danger. Tucked him close to his chest, waiting for Phichit’s breaths to steady.

Little by little, listening to the reassuring thumps of Viktor’s moving heart, Phichit found his strength again. Albeit, his cheeks were flushed when he wiggled out from Viktor’s arms. Mumbling something about how he was supposed to be the teacher in this situation, that Viktor was supposed to be following his lead, that he…

“Mistakes don’t go away when we’re the teacher.” A reassuring pat rippled over Phichit’s shoulder when Viktor passed him. Crouched down to where Mr. Wershire’s heart was before he pulled a plastic sleeve from his toolkit. “We are students until the day we die.”

Mr. Wershire’s heart cradled between his fingers, Viktor’s fingers softened over the grooves leading up to the chambers. Such an innocent organ, no blood to speak of on Viktor’s gloves, before he bagged the heart. A faint whistle crept from the chambers, the tiny solo that the silence wanted to hear.

“If we are dealing with a copycat,” Viktor eased Mr. Wershire back into his seat, straightening the man’s collar, “I’ll love to meet them.”

“Behind bulletproof glass?” Phichit’s voice grew stronger with every word. Enough where his knees ceased in their shakes, but Phichit hid his hands behind him. Until every tremor was indistinguishable from the usual jostles from adrenaline.

“Face to face.” Hands tucked into the grooves of his coat pockets, Viktor strolled around Mr. Wershire. A smile, fitting for a conversation amongst friends, stitched loosely over Viktor’s lips before he settled his hands on the crook of Mr. Wershire’s shoulders. A pinkie reaching out to pluck the C-string. “His heart is as tender as it was alive, yet impeccable to decay. Anyone that could do this, I’d love invite them to the forensic team.”

It was a good joke, though Viktor was the only one that laughed while Phichit managed one of his smiles. Both aware that _The Marionette_ or her copycat’s chances of working on the forensic team were as slim as a serial killer working for the police was.

It was so... _how would Phichit say?,_ so opposite of what was meant to be aligned that it was alright to laugh and joke and pretend that something so silly could ever happen.

Phichit grew more at ease, and he helped Viktor as they finished for the night. A little past midnight upon their shoulders when Phichit peeled out from his medical gloves and wrestled them back into his toolkit. Took a detour around the stage wings, looking for a shadow that moved when it shouldn’t have.

“Just in case the killer is here with us,” Phichit called out as Viktor scooted himself off from the stage.

“Wouldn’t want to be the second and third installation, would we?” Another joke, another laugh, and Phichit pressed Viktor to say more as they walked out from the LeStrange Theatre. Almost hand-in-hand if they wanted to. They were quite close, as much as two midnight partners could be.

Outside in November night, their breaths rose into the air like smokestacks. As if coal burned inside their throats, enough to heat their words before they shivered against a northern winter. They were alone. Not a creature stirred, except for the rumble in Phichit’s tummy when a tender waft of sweets crawled from the other side of the street. Babicheva’s Bakery, illuminated under pink and orange hues, was open at this midnight hour. Roughly five minutes later, cups of hot chocolate kissing their mouths and sponge bread to break for later, Viktor unlocked his truck. Phichit scooted into the passenger seat, balanced his hot chocolate and his toolkit of evidence over his thigh. Viktor climbed into the driver’s seat, cranking the engine with the turn of his key.

Viktor couldn't see out from his windshield, but he drove like a man that was walking down to the death penalty: _fearless._

If there was a way to describe Viktor’s attitude, Phichit thought it’d be a mix of nostalgia and rebellion as the truck dodged potholes and curbs on the way to headquarters. Tales spun behind Viktor’s eyes, lit by the passing streetlights, as his fingers curved over the steering wheel. Steady while the gear bobbed and shook against the rumble of the truck. The slip to a quieter demeanor, bangs parted from his ears and curtained bits of Viktor’s eyes, was unlike anything Phichit had ever seen from him.

In public, where the world was his oyster and he had the pick to snag his pearl, Viktor was a crowd-pleaser during his six months of employment with the Chesapeake Yard. Perhaps, it was his sweet accent. Perhaps, it was the tenderness of his actions and the softness of his personality that drew people closer to him. Whichever it was, it was somewhat frightening how easily people burdened their trust onto Viktor, and he picked up the load with an open-smile and a spirit that could carry more if he wanted to. But here _\--now, this was the difference--_ alone as the flickering streetlights reflected in his teal eyes, it was as if Viktor was a doll with one purpose and one purpose alone.

Whatever it was, Phichit knew better than to ask.

People didn’t join the profession, simply to make friends. Although, Phichit could attest that he caught himself, more than once, conversing with a body from one of the morgue drawers. As sad as it sounded, but even the dead deserved sociable moments in their afterlife. Moreover, if the conversation had to be one-sided, Phichit didn’t mind if he did all the talking while his companion dutifully listened. Perhaps, a tilt to their head to listen to him better before Phichit adjusted them before shutting their drawer.

One such body was a man labeled S.G., or _Seung-Gil_ if Phichit was introducing him to a fellow forensic pathologist for the first time. Marked for autopsy, but Seung-Gil had been a permanent resident in his drawer for months. Screaming a little quieter every few days when the date for his examination was pushed back for bigger and more important deaths than his own. However, Phichit did promise that he would personally find Seung-Gil’s cause of death with his own hands if he had to, and it wasn’t appropriate to think about this now. Fidgeting in a passenger seat, enough where Viktor glanced at Phichit when they stopped at a red light.

Silence: it was a state of mind that people wanted, but rarely accepted for no one knew what the next word would be. It was the same fear that crippled Phichit’s hands when he lifted his cup of hot chocolate. Unable to grace the rim with his tongue before Viktor fiddled with his radio. Soft, operatic voices flushed against their faces, and Viktor rocked a bit in his seat. Settling a familiar gaze that eased Phichit’s nerves, just enough for them to joke again. Pretend that they were whom they weren't, an acceptable break from reality until Viktor flicked his bangs back. A fringe of soft horror accentuated the shadows behind his eyes.

He lifted a graceful hand off from his steering wheel. A mere gesture, fit for the theatre.

 _“Killing may either be the ugliest paintbrush for us to hold,”_ Viktor pressed his cup of hot chocolate against his lips, not taking a sip, _“or, it’s the greatest masterpiece we could ever tell.”_ He took a sip just as Phichit digested his words, eyes widened for the uncertainty of where this thought could’ve come from. “And we, simply, are the admirers that try to understand where these artists are coming from.”

Phichit’s jaw slacked into the defining line between disbelief and awe at the poetic nonsense that crept from Viktor’s mouth. Enough where he regained his footing on reality, strength back in his hands so he could slurp his hot chocolate. A mustache above his upper lip. “Don’t you think it’s farfetched to compare a killer to an artist?”

Viktor drummed his fingers against his steering wheel. “Didn’t seem that way for a while.”

Back at it again, Viktor couldn't make-up his mind of whom he wanted to be for Phichit. A trustful confident or a moral guide, both ambiguous and ever changing with every turn of Viktor’s head when he faced Phichit or not. The shadows never truly left him, no matter how much light shone over the twist of his features.

It reminded Phichit of some of the suspect pictures he had seen for _The Marionette_ case, how every photograph attempted to show the darkness behind the innocent eyes that saw nothing but prejudice behind the camera lens. Perhaps, most jarring was that these suspects were everyday faces that Phichit had grown with. These weren't balding individuals that wasted their lives behind a bottle or with a whiff of a plastic bag. They were artists, fresh graduates with a life ahead of them, new couples with expecting families, old friends meeting again. These were people with so much promise and yet, they felt the sting of what it felt like to be seen as a criminal. Nothing more than just that when history wrote of the victors and the convicted received the spoils of the war.

Viktor did his research in this bit of play-acting, steering the conversation to what mattered to him right now: _The Marionette_ case. Truly, it was the _Queen_ that called the end to this chess match than the _King._

“You really did your homework for this.” Bits of opera occupied Phichit’s ears when Viktor sang a little with the melody.

“Preparation is important when deriving for possible suspects. It’s possible that a suspect came back to enact revenge on the town. When people didn't take them seriously, someone had to do something with their own hands.”

Phichit bit his bottom lip. “Scary to think that the Chesapeake Yard could make someone act that way.”

“I never mentioned a name,” Viktor said. The shadow of a smirk curved over his lips.

Phichit clutched the imaginary wound along his side. “We can go through the list of suspects and try to compensate them.”

“That's not _our_ job.” Viktor flashed his turn signal and drove into the parking lot for the Chesapeake Yard.

He stamped his identification card and the security gates wheeled back to let Viktor and Phichit through. It shut behind them and the fog rolling from Lake Huron tinted the scene like a clip from _Backstreet Crimewatch._ Except the only flowing coat was Phichit’s sleeve when it flapped with the wind. Carefully balancing evidence, sponge cake, and his hot chocolate with one arm. Wrestling the truck door to close while Viktor waited for him like a brother. A firm hand to keep them close, together before roosting behind an examination table for the rest of the night.

“Finding the suspects is dictated to the police and detectives. Even then, you won't find a mention of the agency in the newspapers,” Viktor said. Careful with his language when they approached the front doors.

“Why?”

“People don't trust the law, but they like to think that it's doing its job.” A smile shifted over Viktor’s lips when he bowed his head at a passing detective, coming into the night shift to investigate where Viktor and Phichit left off. The detective tipped her hat in response, squeezing past the forensic pathologists with the brush of her elbow.

“See you in the morning, Piper!” Phichit’s voice rang like a brass bell, and Piper trumpeted back.

Another all-nighter was upon everyone’s shoulders and, perhaps, Phichit appreciated his hot chocolate a little more than he used to. Discarding the cup as soon as got into the examination room, already peeling out of his coat while Viktor shuffled around the room with evidence. The click of his dress shoes swung a rhythm for Phichit to ride on, and he surfed with his sneakers to the morgue drawers. Peeling open the compartment that hid Seung-Gil on the other side.

As if he fast asleep, not yet ready to wake-up and deal with the world, and a wax paper covered to about where his shoulders ended and where his neck began. Two holes embedded against the side of his neck, nicknamed a _“vampire’s kiss”_ when Phichit first saw Seung-Gil. Fingers pressed along the metallic border of the morgue drawer, wondering if Seung-Gil would open his eyes if Phichit stared long enough. As strange as it sounded, and a tinge of shadows burdened over the crook of Phichit’s shoulders. The light above him flickered, here and there, before it stabilized.

The slight stir of Viktor rummaging through papers made it easier for Phichit to say what slipped from his lips. “Do you ever wonder if the bodies here will ever find their justice?”

The bended corner of a casefile was the only, audible response to the question. Phichit didn’t turn his head, nor did he pause a bit longer to hear if Viktor had a response to give. Fingers drummed against the border of Seung-Gil’s drawer, Phichit tore his eyes away from the identification plates in front of him and settled on the sunken patches of where Seung-Gil’s eyes were. Perhaps, they stared upwards into a blank space or looked off onto the side, watching as two holes pierced the side of his neck. Fear was the only thing that stopped Phichit, just knowing that he may find the reflection of the killer in Seung-Gil’s eyes.

“Don’t grief for the day for justice is served in Hell.” Viktor popped a pen cap off with his teeth, lightly scribbling across a post-it note before patting the paper over the plastic bag with Mr. Wershire’s silent heart. “Grief for the living for their Hell has just begun.”

“This isn’t the time to be philosophical!” Jutted prints littered across Phichit’s fingers until he pried them away from Seung-Gil’s drawer. “I want you to be straight with me.” Phichit steadied his breathing, or tried to. Well aware that he had to keep his emotions in-check, or he’d be sent to Lilia’s office again. Anything than to see the disappointment in her eyes, and Phichit already had two strikes on his record. Add a third and he’d…

“It’s not philosophy, but me being honest,” Viktor finally said. His accent had a way of softening his words, lulling Phichit into a sense of security. Whether false or true, it didn’t matter to Phichit when his hands balled into a pair of fists. “We can’t control what’s beyond this life, but we can do something so that someone doesn’t throw away theirs. Like the copycat-killer,” Viktor said. Pen poised in his hand, like a knife, for when Phichit turned around. Staring at the floor, but Viktor didn’t drop his weapon until Phichit rubbed his eyes.

No matter what-- _Phichit told himself--_ he had to keep himself together. That tears did nothing in solving a murder, that getting heated over a pushed autopsy was something that he had to endure, that not every victim was counted equally and the same, and that crying was for the folks at a funeral than for him. Here, standing in a tiled room with more than enough ears to hear how uneven his breaths were. To think that an argument could break Phichit this much, and he was allowed to crumble and fall. Just, Viktor stayed close and was ready to sweep the broken shards and rebuild Phichit. Not as he was before, but in a way where his cracks were apparent so that others could see where he came from to get here.

 _Kintsugi:_ how every fault was immortalized in gold, and the intricate branches meandering from the central cracks told a unique story that no one else could tell. This was the art, cradled in his hands, when Viktor rolled a fluffy wad of cotton balls over Phichit’s palms. Telling him to squeeze, unleash his tension, and the softness of the cotton eased the jutted marks embedded in his skin. Phichit’s skin melted back into its tender folds, and Viktor slowly closed Seung-Gil’s drawer. A brief farewell, but it wasn’t forever.

“Phichit will listen to you at another time,” Viktor whispered. In his gentlest tone, where it sounded like a promise and Phichit believed in it. Hands folded behind his back, Viktor asked if Phichit had someone to talk to. In other words, did Phichit have a friend? Besides Seung-Gil, often it was hard to hear for what the dead had to say when one’s thoughts were preoccupied with another matter.

“I have Yuuri,” Phichit mumbled. _‘My apartment roommate’_ nearly slipped out of his mouth before Phichit caught himself. It didn’t go unnoticed by Viktor, but he tilted his head to the side. Curiosity brimmed behind his curtained eyes. Lips twitched in the subtle manner, in which he whispered Yuuri’s name.

“Is he also a forensic pathologist?”

“Retired from the field, but he's a teacher for the Academy.”

It wasn't the whole truth, not by a longshot when Viktor leaned his back against a morgue drawer. Hand perched over his mouth when his smile grew at the crook between him thumb and index finger. As quick as it grew, as quick as it was gone when footsteps thundered the hall outside. The clunking footsteps of Celestino paused at the foot of the door before he popped his head into the room. Bags puffed under his eyes and the stench of coffee lingered at the entrance when Phichit and Viktor passed through. Following Celestino, glancing at each other from the corner of their eyes, when the detective whisked them down to the interrogation hall. Then and only then, after peeling creamer into his water bottle, Celestino perked up.

“I was hoping that you gentlemen would’ve put up a better fight.” A wheeze hacked the corner of Celestino’s lungs. Suddenly, so small when he clutched the side of a wall for support. Phichit froze, nerves firing throughout his body, while Viktor tucked his shoulder under Celestino’s arm. The old detective managed a laugh, as wheezy as it sounded in this moment of weakness.

“A million things will have to happen first before that’ll happen.” Viktor brushed his bangs to the side, steadying Celestino with every step forward.

“Flattery must’ve gotten you to many places, Nikiforov.” Celestino patted the back of Viktor’s shoulder before slipping off it and walked on his own. “But divert that flattery to someone else, not me.”

“To whom?” Viktor already knew the answer before the question slipped. His gaze parted through the curtain of his bangs, and Phichit rushed to the glass panel between him and the other side. Where Yuuri, his back towards the glass, snapped the handcuffs off a woman, off _“The Marionette”._ Her eyes narrowed like a dagger upon the glass window; however, from her point of view, it appeared as a mirror. As a glass where she could look back and stare at the crimes she never committed.

“Yuuri needs us.” Phichit’s voice drew Viktor’s attention away from the glass. Phichit’s breath, so close to the surface, fogged his clarity. His voice as silent as a hum when Yuuri returned to his side of the interrogation table. A finger, poised under a special button that only he and the people behind him were aware of. As casual as he could, despite being stripped down to a checkered shirt and an old jacket that had seen better days, Yuuri opened his casefile. Carefully sorting through the papers with a lick of his finger.

“I think you know why you’re here.” His voice wavered, almost indecipherable when Yuuri licked the dry roof of his mouth.

“It’s not like I haven’t been here for four years.” The woman crossed her arms, hissing slightly under her breath as her wrists rested over the squish of her arms. Cradling the shackles, ingrained to her bones. _“Yuuri Katsuki.”_

 _“Chihoko Saruhiko.”_ Chihoko’s mugshot slipped over Yuuri’s fingers. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his pinkie and closed his eyes for a moment. Behind him, Celestino drew a chair for Phichit and Viktor to sit in. Viktor leaned forward, slowing his breaths until all he could hear were Yuuri’s heartbeats.

 

 

_“I believe it'd be unfortunate if I couldn't meet you again.”_

The smallest things at his fingertips prompted a quick debriefing before Yuuri opened his eyes; lashes brushed the edge of his glasses when he pressed his hands together. Paused, unsure of the etiquette he was going for.

A crumbled fist alluded to violence. Hands flat against the table seemed unnatural. His thumb curled over his fingers spoke of an ulterior motive. Ah, Yuuri kept one of his hands on his lap. Ready to reach up and brush against the button under the table with the back of his knuckles. If- _-and only if-_ -things turned for the worse in this little experiment and Chihoko was his variable.

She held as much inquisition with the furrow of her brow, just as how Yuuri pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. As if they were to fake each other in this little gamble, with hearts at their sleeves and innocence at the centre of the table. Fate dealt their cards. A flicker of five flew to Yuuri’s side of the interrogation table before he folded them upwards. Just enough where he caught the symbols at the corners before folding his hand down. Merely moving his eyes, not his head, in the inspection. Lest, he wanted to reveal his fortune while Chihoko flipped her hand over. Nothing to lose, too much to gain from this little affair if she played her deal just right. Despite the utter nonsense that did nothing in harming Yuuri, but the ambition behind Chihoko’s move forced Yuuri one-step back.

He ran a thumb over his hand before he met Chihoko’s eyes. Yuuri only saw his reflection, tinted over as if he was fattened calf for the slaughter. All the more reason why Yuuri dressed for the occasion-- _saliva hitched in the back of his throat because of how tightly bounded his checkered collar was._ His Adam’s apple, choked against the fabric. However, Yuuri simply rolled his head in a casual manner, as if cracking his neck while he loosened his throat, before folding his cards over.

The luck of the draw was to Yuuri’s favor, even when it felt like he was drowning. A water’s edge, just below the constraints of his throat. The line rose ever higher until Yuuri couldn’t breathe. Every breath pricked across his skin when he turned, swimming upwards to a light that he could barely reach. Where his fingertips broke through the surface and Yuuri emerged from the water’s edge. Droplets rippled over the surface of his calm when a reckoning emerged like a spinning top.

This was what bridged the land with a storm, of swirling desires and temptations that filtered through a human heart before the body had to react on its own. Having sat on the edge of a kiddie pool for years, feeling the nip of the breeze against his skin, Yuuri braced himself when an eternal flame erupted from the storm. Stretched, wings bolded above her turbulent wrath, was a siren. Soared above the destruction was Chihoko. A simple flap to her wings while waves splashed into Yuuri from behind. Water cascaded through his locks and ran the corner of his shoulders. One drop at a time as Chihoko, the herald of this storm, drummed her fingers against her side of the interrogation table in reality.

Reality had a strange way of coinciding with the imagination, especially when a hooked beak and velvety feathers sprung out from Chihoko’s features. The thin material of her prison garb turned into a torn, Greek garment that clung to her shoulders. A lyre hooked around her waist with sandals laced around her ankles. The rattle of marbles somewhere behind her back when Yuuri’s imagination splashed over the scene like a paintbrush. Spilling gray and troubled waters into the interrogation room until Yuuri was a gasp away from drowning. A breath away from dying under the mercy of Chihoko’s storm.

A slap across the face mirrored how Yuuri slowly turned his gaze away from the fire within Chihoko’s eyes in reality.

She was more than just a variable. She was human: _neither a constant to Life’s ever-changing equation, or exactly a mathematical blueprint that could be solved._ Imaginary answers existed, as much as the world liked to believe in the concrete, and Yuuri knew this to be true when he found the root of the negativity, sticking out from Chihoko like a sore thumb when he grew brave enough to meet her eyes again.

Chihoko blinked, slowly. Reeling back in her seat, smoldering the flames at her fingertips, when she stared back at Yuuri’s lovely face.

It’d been four years since she last felt the kiss from the sun, and the narrow of her eyes spoke of everything she could’ve done, should’ve done, and couldn’t have done while behind a lonely cell with a memory to keep her company. “When will I get them back?”

The years: _spent fiddling away at the constant shutdowns and denials that shredded Chihoko’s hands when she picked up her broken pieces, watched as her reflection faded for there was nothing to reflect if an image was gone._

Yuuri reasoned that the same shards were in her arms, right now. Piled and held together by the little strength Chihoko had left. It hurt, but Yuuri pulled the trigger that fractured another piece. Watched as it fell and splintered against the floor, only to reemerge as a whole if Yuuri wanted it to. Alas, he didn’t think of that when he picked up a document from Chihoko’s casefile. “You’ve warranted yourself enough illicit activities where they _won’t_ be coming back.”

His glasses slipped just a bit, but Yuuri didn’t pause to adjust them. With this angled look, where half of Chihoko was a blur and the other half was as clear as day, Yuuri couldn’t see her face. Only her hands were defined, and they were pressed with other issues than the image of her stained glass. Her nails burrowed into her skin for security, unsure of what to do with themselves now that nothing was holding them back.

Yuuri understood that pain, once. After he was laid-off, _or ‘retired’ from the field,_ Yuuri often spent every waking moment of his day with his hand pressed against his side. Desperately shielding the jagged scar down the crescent of his stomach, even though his stitches did that for him. Because when Yuuri curled beneath his sheets, pain rippled out and constricted his sense whenever he pulled his hand away from the wound.

Even now, after all these years, Yuuri’s fingertips trembled despite his control, wanting to inch back to the same wound and relieve it under his touch. His flesh-memories weren’t as rusty as his mind, and the same went for Chihoko. No matter how proud she wanted to seem, and that facade was nothing but a blur to Yuuri.

“You still have a decade left before we can formally integrate you back into society.” He straightened the papers and settled them aside. Opted to cup his hands together, resting them over the table in a manner not too different from a judge in a court hearing.

There was no need for the security button if there was nothing to get physical about. Even if Chihoko stuck her tongue into her cheek and wrestled back every word she _could’ve_ said. Her eyes lingered on the glass behind Yuuri before she slouched back in her seat. Legs wide, unbothered to the subtle hints of vulnerability when her crossed arms slacked just a bit.

“I’m guessing that wildlife means nothing to Flint.” A scoff had a strange effect on Chihoko’s body language. The need to exaggerate and feel like the bigger person in the situation undermined the Chihoko that looked into Yuuri’s eyes, four years ago, and spelled out his murder warrant behind a twitch of her grin when she was escorted from a suspect line. All because she was found with a bloodied knife on person, because of her dismissal of repeated allegations of cruelty when she never did, and it didn’t help when a finger singled her out as the living nightmare of Flint, Michigan.

Claimed as _The Marionette_ when she wasn’t, branded as a killer when she did nothing more than protect, and the subtle art of her vengeance was gone. Stripped from her being, leaving behind this shell that imprisonment spat out when Chihoko heard a stir from her cell for the first time in years. Not of a meal tray, but for a chance for freedom. Alas, Chihoko was a bird that was caged for too long. Unable to fly and she had nowhere and no one to turn to bring her life back on track. Staying in prison was her Hell and salvation, and the angry marks trailed from her nails conveyed snippets of that tale.

“Wildlife conservation marks the difference between the past we want to leave behind and the future we strive for. You can’t just…” Yuuri glanced down and his finger underlined a hooked blade that had been found on Chihoko’s possession the night she was arrested near the Flintston Hospital: _a linoleum knife._ Sort of like the taller cousin to a fishing hook and Yuuri had been intimately acquainted to one without his consent. “Do things on your own. Without a license.”

Added beneath his breath before Chihoko could play the animal-card.

Revenge was a bitch and a mutt that Chihoko had known for all her life when she lifted her brow. “You should’ve outlined your laws better.”

“I don’t make the laws. _I enforce them,”_ just about growled between Yuuri’s lips if he didn’t hold himself back. A pencil cupped over his index finger as it was a gun, but it rolled out from his touch and teetered to the edge of the interrogation table.

To the edge of oblivion, if it wanted, when Yuuri slipped his glasses off and unbuttoned the top button of his collar. Enough so, where he could breathe comfortably and meet Chihoko at her level. As far as a descent it was from a familiar perch, Yuuri didn’t break eye contact when he found the whites of her eyes.

Nearly an animal in his stance, nearly a monster that had once crept through Chesapeake Yard without a purpose until an opportunity caved through and Yuuri stood in balcony of his beloved guest. Pray to say, no one knew what would happen if the interrogation table wasn’t between them. For Chihoko and Yuuri were simply two canines, used to a chain and now forced to play in a rather dangerous game. When one stalked the other in the conversation until the grizzle of their snouts brushed.

 _“Chihoko,”_ the slip into Yuuri’s native tongue coaxed Chihoko to listen. _“I can get you out of here if you help me.”_

 _“What makes you think I can trust you?”_ Chihoko’s lips barely moved as she leaned across the table. Elbows propped against the table and she rested her chin over her knuckles. A fringe of her bangs slid down from her forehead and crooked to the left of her nose. Almost like a child sworn into a secret, trying her best not to be heard in the exchange.

_“Because I can prove that you’re not The Marionette.”_

If the world did end, if one was to die before their time, if Chihoko could have one of her wishes answered, she heard it from Yuuri. Say, someone could shoot her now and Chihoko would have enough strength to pull herself together off from the floor. She would crawl and scrape every part of her body in the endeavor just to hear that sentence once more. That statement, so eloquently flew from Yuuri’s lips and perched against her ears.

“Say that again.” The drop into English colored Chihoko’s cheeks when Yuuri reached out and pretended that he held her fingers against his own. So gently, he pressed his lips against that imagination and repeated his words. As many times as Chihoko needed to hear. Enough times, where Chihoko hid her smile behind her hands. Nearly shattering right then and there with every repeat until she glowed in such a way where she was more alive than she had ever been before.

She had known this truth for years. It was so primal, so true to her being, but so easily broken when everyone around her said that she was wrong. That she was a killer, that she indeed committed every crime in the book until her capture. And eventually, Chihoko did believe. Her mouth against everyone else. Someone was wrong somewhere and it felt that every finger pointed at her as Chihoko cradled the broken truth in her arms and felt its last breath against her skin. When she had paced, back and forth in her cell, unsure of who she really was.

All Yuuri had to do was throw out a line and slowly reel Chihoko into the security she needed. Where half of her burden fell upon his shoulder and Chihoko could walk again and feel as equal as to anyone that observed her in the interrogation room. These thoughts, these feelings, stopped in their tracks when reality cracked and sizzled in the back of Chihoko’s mind. She dropped her hands away from her mouth, a twitch to her brow when she shrouded her emotions once more. Unsure as to what game Yuuri wanted to play now.

 _“If you can…”_ Absent taps echoed from Chihoko’s side of the table, drummed by the steady toll of her thumb. _“Why didn’t you…?”_ Her voice shook with every word until Chihoko broke her gaze away from Yuuri’s, distracted by a layer of dust that only she could see. Unsure if she really wanted to see the response that would spill.

Yuuri straightened his glasses. Neither blind nor ignorant of who sat behind the wall of glass behind him. There were some demons that one could subdue, there were some demons that went away on their own, and then there were a certain few that one could only carry until they broke one from the inside-out.

“What makes you think I had a choice?” Yuuri, breath hitched at the back of his throat, could close his eyes and remember how he said that exact line, four years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be spotty. I’m aiming to update at least...when I can. Or, whenever I have time since I’m working on long-term, five year-project-- [ How to Tame a Heart ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529628/chapters/31037085) \--and new chapter posts once per season for that fic.
> 
> To some degree, it feels like I’m writing my own little TV show, in fanfic form. Getting everything together to create the visuals and atmospheres that I love to work with.
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting and/or kudosing, and you can chat with me on tumblr, [ @yuuris-piano ](https://yuuris-piano.tumblr.com) , to read fic previews for what I’m doing and we can discuss about character development~!


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